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Shakespeare 
Up to Date 



And Ofh^r 
Latter-Day Lyrics 



BY 



ARTHUR G. BURGOYNE. 



Price, Twenty^i^e Cents y Postpaid, 

— I — 4Wf-^189^ 



Wi.' 



T. W. NEViKyPaMisKer, 
PITTSBURG, PA. 



1 



SH 







[ 




— AND- 



~BY- 



7 
Arthur G. Borgoyne, 

It 

(*'A11 Sorts" Man of the Pittsburg 
"Leader"). 



Illustrated by 

FREDERICK EARL JOHMSTON. 



APR g?1896f 



T. W. Nevin, mhaMfynsvi'^^^!^''^ JX 



Pittsburg, Pa. 
1896. 



V--«— ^ 



(Copyrighted, 1896, by T. W. Nevin.) 



INTRODUCTORY. 



The verses collected in this little vol- 
ume are offered to the public as an 
example of rough-and-ready newspaper 
jingle, literally "dashed off" by the 
writer as a part of his daily allotment 
of labor. 

Every day since October 13, 1890, the 
"All Sorts" column of the Pittsburg 
"Leader" has been headed with a bit 
of verse, dealing with the leading topio 
of the hour, or, in case the leading topic 
happened to be stale or unpalatable, 
with some more congenial theme, arbi- 
trarily chosen. As a rule, however, the 
metrical department held its own as a 
department of current comment and 
moved along "pari passu" with the ed- 
itorial colujam. 

Of course, there could be no pol- 
ishing of these "lyrics" under the 
circumstances governing their manu- 
facture. The poetical machinery work- 
ed at high pressure and the period of 
production was usually from five to 
thirty minutes. 

Nevertheless the writer, having been 



bred in a school of literary effort which 
knows not fear or trembling, submits 
the accompanying gems to the great 
world outside the sphere of the "Lead- 
er" with a cheerful indifference to the 
consequences. 

If any man's life should be brighten- 
ed or his home broken up by these ma- 
chine-made verses, the author will still 
be honest enough to confess that they 
were not, like the works of most other 
metrical performers of modern times, 
written with a ''purpose." It is merely 
as a specimen of mechanical art, oper- 
ating under a full head of steam, that 

they are submitted by 

The Author. 




RICHARD III. 

Of subjects dramatic there's none more 
absurd 

Than that bull-headed Englishman Rich- 
ard the Third, 

For although he was wealthy and sat on 
a throne 

He could never let first degree murder 
alone. 

Old Shakespeare veraciously tells us that 
Dick 

(So we'll call him for sho-rt) had an im- 
becile trick 

Of arousing his relatives out of their beds 

And exclaiming excitedly, "Orf with their 
'eds!" 



As a bracer each morning he'd string up 

a lord; 
As a nightcap, a duke he would put to the 

sword; 
When he'd bowl up on sack — very prime 

was his stock— 
A round dozen of viscounts he'd send to 

the block. 



Two juvenile nephews he lodg-'d in the 

Tow'r, 
Where the poor little chaps were cut off 

in their flow'r; 
Brother Clarence, who tippled,, he brought 

into line 
By submerg-ing- the sot in a hogshead of 

wine. 

He surprised Rivers, Buckingham, Hast- 
ings and Gray 

By abruptly removing their craniums one 
day, 

And, though hunchbacked and cock-eyed 
and evil of tongue, 

He attempted to copy the late Brigham 
Young. 

While his record of felonies always was 

full. 
The courts wouldn't try him because of 

his "pull," 
And if anyone threatened to cure him by 

force 
He'd advance to the footlights and swear 

he'd do worse. 

The people of England knew well he did 
wrong. 

But had no secret ballot to help them 
along-; 

"What's the use of reform," they de- 
jectedly said, 

"When the high moral hustler must part 
with his head?" 

But at last Colonel Richmond, a gallant 
free lance. 

Who had long found it healthy to linger 
in Prance, 

Recruited an army, resolved on a kick, 

And declared, by the gods, that he'd wal- 
lop King Dick. 

At Bos worth they met— 'twas a place 
apropos— 

For King Dick was a Boss worth defeat- 
ing, you know. 

There his liver went wrong on the eve 
of the fight 

And a horrible dream made him squirm 
all the night. 

6 



The ghosts of his victims emerged from 

the tomb 
And appeared in his tent with predictions 

of gloom. 
The calcium burnt blue as each muttered 

a curse, 
And the king woke up raving and called 

for a horse. 

The battle came off and King Dick lost 

his life, 
While Richmond triumphantly ended the 

strife. 
Then the victor stepped front with the 

crown on his brow. 
And the gallery gods raised a deuce of a 

row. 

7 



HAMLET, 



There lived In Denmark years ago 

A princeling adolescent, 
Who always was in spirits low, 

And never could be pleasant. 
His stockings were of solemn black; 

His cloak was made of camlet; 
His stock of names was very slack— 

'Twas limited to "Hamlet." 



Hfts family disgraced the town; 

The most of 'em were crooked; 
His father wore a nobby crown; 

His uncle schemed to hook it. 
A dose of poison did the act, 

('Twas given circumspectly.) 
The uncle by the queen was backed 

And married her directly. 
8 



The specter of the king appeared 

And said in tones appalling-: 
"O Ham, my son, your dad revered, 

Though dead, for gore is calling. 
Your uncle is a scalawag, 

Your mother is no better; 
Just kill 'em both— pray, do not lag — 

And I will be your debtor." 

At this poor Ham went off his nut, 

And in his awful hurry 
Polonius to death he cut. 

Thus adding to his worry. 
Polonius was Ham's girl's papa 

And— O! the torture scathing!— 
The girl went mad— yes, mad, ha! ha«! 

And drowned herself while batning. 

Then came Polonius' only son 

Laertes, like a lion. 
He went for Hamlet with a gun 

And thought to leave him dyin'; 
With poison and a fencing foil 

He tried the Prince to slaughter. 
But Ham knew how his game to spoil 

And killed him as he oughter. 

The king and queen by accident 

Drank Hamlet's poisoned chalice. 
Then Ham took one himself; he meant 

To show he bore no malice. 
As all the family now were dead 

Through circumstances squally, 
Old Shakespeare, with a level head. 

Here wrote the word "Finale." 
O 




SHYLOCK. 

In a period archaic 

Dwelt in Venice by the sea 
An old gentleman Hebraic 

Just as stingy as could be. 
Ev'ry one that saw his sly look 

When a ducat hove in view, 
Would exclaim, "That Mr. Shylock 

Is a skinflint through and through." 

Sweet Miss Portia was an heiress 
With a goodly store of pelf; 

And besides she was as fair as- 
Well, as fair as Love itself. 

And her beaux she loved to baffle, 
Young Bassanio 'mid the rest; 

But he won her at a raffle 
And he pressed her to his vest. 

While Bassanio fixed his fences, 

He was nicely kept afloat. 
For Antonio paid expenses 

With a promissory note. 
Fhylock cashed it; Bass securing 

The proceeds, said, "Israelite 
When this notelet is maturing 

You may walk the floor all night." 
lO 



The security provided 

By Antonio was a pound 
Of his flesh, if he backslided 

When the settling- time came round.- 
As he didn't have a copper 

Shylock swore he was a "beat," 
And with expletives improper. 

Vowed he'd have his pound of meat* 

Poor Antonio was arrested 

And was brought before the Duke 
To be legally invested 

With the status of a crook. 
But the news abroad did journey 

And when Portia heard the tale 
She dressed up as an attorney 

And got Tony out on bail. 

At the trial, Purdon's digest 

She produced and in the same 
Found the groundwork for a sly jest— 

'Twas a clever little game. 
"Mr. Shylock," she said sweetly, 

"With your little butcher knife 
Cut an even pound off neatly 

Or the law will have your life." 

Shylock wilted; there was no test; 

Portia won by iron gall; 
And the note — it went to protest 

And was never paid at all. 
TTot a moment, then, they tarried 

But the bells began to chime, 
And they everyone got married 

And had quite a nobby time. 
11 




JULIUS CAESAR. 

In ancient Rome on a street unknown, 

At a number not recorded 
A political sharp, of the highest tone, 
With his family lodged and boarded. 

Like Chris Magee 

A boss was ht 
And historians all agree, sir, 

That in levelness of head 

The universe he led, 
Which his name 'twas Julius Caesar. 



He went to war with a great hurrah 

And burned his boats behind him. 
Wherever the face of an enemy he saw 
In the front you'd always find him. 

The foreigners that kicked 

Were summarily licked 
And compelled fur their lives to flee, sir. 

And sf.vage folk 

Had to walk 'neath the yo!?0 
Of Commander Julius Caesar. 

13 



All Rome turned out with joy to greet 

The warrior home returning; 
But a few who couldn't with him compete 
With envious rage were burning. 
They chewed their nails, 
Told trumped-up tales, 
And were mad as mad could be, sir. 
When they saw that all 
Weie ready to fall 
At the feet of Julius Caesar. 



Old Brutus, he was the General's chum 

And Cassius was another. 
While Casca swore that, whate'er might 
come, 
He loved him as a brother. 

As they loved him so, 
In their overflow 
Of affection true, these three, sir, 
Fixed an early date 
To assassinate 
Ambitious Julius Caesar. 



When Julius sought to wear a crown, 

The plotters cried, "Have at you," 
Then carved him up and he dropped rigHt 
down 
At the base of Pompey's statue. 
Antonius spake 
At the General's wake. 
While the tears came fast and free, sir. 
And the murderers fled, 
Their hands still red, 
With the gore of Julius Caesar. 



Now Brutus, backed by Cassius, tried 

In war to flnd salvation. 
They failed and took to suicide 
As a final consolation. 

To record their shame 
The task became 
Of the Stratford bard and he, sir, 
SflU evokes applause 
And the public draws 
With the tale of Julius Caesar. 
13 



J 




OTHELLO. 

Shakespeare tells of one Othello, 
An unpleasant sort of fellow, 
Who resided once in Venice and enjoyed a. 
hefty pull; 
He was black as coal and boorish, 
And his family was Moorish, 
Yet an army he commanded and of honors 
he was full. 

Ne'er in Venice was there known a 
Fairer lass than Desdemona— 
She was spooney on Othello, and the pair 
of 'em eloped; 
Old Bassanio, her father, 
Swore by all the gods he'd rather 
Have been ruined than to see her into such 
a marriage roped. 

On the foul miscegenation 
People frowned disapprobation, 
And Othello was hauled up before the sign- 
iors, grave and wise. 
"You're a black," said they, indignant. 
"She's a beaut." said he, benignant. 
And the signiors dropped the case when 
thus he did apologize. 
14 X 



Of Othello's guards the highest 
One was Cassio, and the slyest 
Was lago, who was jealous of the Moor 
and Cassio, too. 
Now this cunning basilisk, he 
Got young Cassio full of whisky, 
Whereupon Othello bounced the youth, as. 
duty bade him do. 
Desdemona interceded 
For the victim, and she pleaded 
So devoutly that lago saw his chance to 
play the deuce. 
"See, Othello," said the villain, 
"Cassio loves her and she's willin' 
With that whisky-drinking scalawag to* 
play you fast and loose." 
Then a handkerchief was flashed up 
Which the Moor completely smashed 
up 
Since lago said that Desdemona gave it to 
her beau. 
Says Othello: "Talk is idle. 
Nothing short bf homicidal 
Demonstrations will content me in the case 
of Mrs. O." 
Thereupon he wildly snorted, 
And with visage much distorted. 
Sword in hand he sought the chamber 
where sweet Desdemona slept. 
But too sweet she was for stabbing, 
So thought he: "I'll do no jabbing; 
It might hurt the girl," and at the thought 
he sat him down and wept. 
Finally, his nerve regaining. 
He could brook no more restraining, 
So he seized the sofa pillow and with that 
he did the deed. 
As they nevermore could wake her, 
To bring in an undertaker 
Was the next thing on the program in this 
mournful hour of need. 
On the instant, loud lamenting, 
Came lago's wife, repenting 
That she hadn't spoken out before, since 
now it was too late. 
Out of fear she had suppressed it, 
But she freely now confessed it, 
That lago had been lying and that Mrs. O. 
was straight. 
When he heard this sad recital 
Then Othello pierced a vital 
Portion of his composition with his jewel- 
hilted blade. 
Thus the circus terminated 
<And the audience much elated 
O'er the wind-up, thought a sweeter play 
than this was never made. 
15 




TIMON OF ATHENS. 



See, on this flg-ure appears the stamp, 
The thorough, indelible brand, 

Which characterizes the genus tramp, 

The chap who, whether 'tis dry or damp, 
Goes strolling about the land. 

Free lunch and of rum an occasional 
drain 

He chases, but labor is in vain, 
He'd have you understand. 



Our sample was the first of his race; 

In Athens he used to dwell. 
Lord Timon he was till he sank from 

grace; 
For the gilded youth he set the pace 

And was counted a howling swell. 
With lavish hand his cash he spent, 
And with lightning speed to the bow- 
wows went 

And into the gutter fell. 



The Coal Oil Johnny of Greece was he 

And parasites hemmed him round; 
Liucullus, Sempronius and Lucius were 

three 
That "pulled his leg." He was soft, you 
see, 
And 'twas thus that he ran aground. 
For the fellow that scatters his ready 

cash 
On ev'ry hand in a manner rash 
To go by the board is bound. 



Collectors thronged at his palace door; 

His notes to protest went; 
Of letters he got full many a score 
The legend "please remit" they bore; 

And his landlord sued for rent. 
He tried to borrow from friends es- 
teemed, 
But wofully short of cash they seemed; 

They'd lend him nary a cent. 



At this Lord Timon's rage was great, 

And his curses rent the air. 
He cursed the city; he cursed the state; 
And then he fled on a passing freight, 

For he had no railroad fare. 
Quoth he, "Humanity's all a cheat 
Henceforth I'll be nought but a stone- 
dead beat 

And cast-off clothes I'll wear." 



Thus Timon laid the foundation stone 

Of trampdom, and to-day 
The Knights of the Road, who make 

their moan 
At kitchen doors in a puling tone. 
Their homage are bound to pay 
To the memory of their prototype. 
Whose rags and bundle and short clay 

pipe 
Are the "motif" of Shakespeare's play. 
17 




THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 

There were four twins— two pair, you 
know, 

A set of real jolly cusses; 
And two were known as Dromio 

And two of 'em were Antipholuses. 

Will Shakespeare picked these duplex 
twins, 
Foredoom'd to strange mishaps and 
terrors, 
To move the world to broadest grins 
Throughout a "Comedy of Errors," 

Each Dromio with an Antipholus 

As bcdy-servitor abided. 
The one pair lived at Ephesus, 

The other at Syracuse resided. 



A shipwreck split the pairs apart 
In infancy, but human "natur" 

Inspired them, with a loving heart, 
To try and see each other later. 
IS 



So, years thereafter, o'er the sea, 
Supplied with information scanty, 

Went "Anti" Number One. Thought he, 
"Perchance I'll find the other *Anti.' " 

His dad, Aeg-eon, paid his fare. 
And went along, his bosom thaWing 

As he beheld one "Anti" there 
And hoped two pair he might be draw- 
ing. 

Arrived at Ephesus, they found 
That four of a kind knocks two pair 
silly; 

All four were mixed and twisted round, 
And things began to turn out illy. 

The wife of "Anti" Number Two 
Took Number One for hers and slapped 
him. 
While Number Two, by men in blue 
Was gobbled, who in prison clapped 
him. 

The Dromios, too, were more or less 
Confounded, railed at, kicked and sat 
on. 
In short both pairs, we must confess, 
Were bad to draw to, or else stand pat 
on. 

To make things worse Aegeon was jailed 
And doomed to death without rhyme 
or reason; 

And being in durance, of course he failed 
To open the jack-pot in proper season. 

But just at the time when 'twas agreed 
That all hands round were drunk or 
crazy, 
Aegeon, en route to the gallows, took 
heed 
Of the several twins and the happ'nings 
mazy. 

By strawberry marks, 'twas all made 
straight 
And the twins reuned in a style de- 
voted. 
Aegeon was freed at an early date 
And a royal flush on his cheek was 
noted. 

Then a long-lost mother came on the 
scene 
And greeted the crowd with embraces 
hearty; 
Whereat all hands, with emotion keen, 
Cashed in their chips and broke up the 
party, 

19 



MRS. MACBETH. 

Do not tell us of Susan B. Anthony's 
fame 
Or of sweet Lillie Devereux Blake; 
Do not tell us that these in the woman's 
rights game 
Take the laurel, the palm and the cake. 
For we've looked up the records and find 
*tis a fact 
(So Shakespeare decisively saith); 
That there's none that can beat in the 
masculine act 
Her Scotch ladyship, Mrs. Macbeth, 
for life 

When she made her debut she was mated 

To the cousin of Duncan, the king; 
And she said to herself, "To be royalty's 
wife 
Would be quite an agreeable thing." 
So she argued with Mac that by hook or 
by crook 
He was bound to put Duncan to death. 
And his nerve fled away 'neath the 
basilisk look 
Fastened on him by Mrs. Macbeth. 
20 



tCing Duncan to visit Macbeth was in- 
duced, 
And he took Captain BanquO' along*. 
**Ah ha!" said the lady, aside, "You'll be 
g-oosed. 
Unless matters with Mac should go 
wrong." 
As for Mac, he met witches, who led him 
astray. 
And by ghosts he was robbed of his 
breath. 
Even daggers intangible rose in his way— 
He'd have quit but for Mrs. Macbeth. 



Egged on by the woman, the man did the 
deed. 
And Duncan was slain in his sleep; 
Next Banquo was killed, and from rivalry 
freed, 
Mac arrived at the top of the heap. 
But his conscience rebuked him; strange 
visions he saw; 
Of each victim there bobbed up the 
wraith. 
Still whenever he took to lamenting; "Oh, 
pshaw," 
Was the answer of Mrs. Macbeth. 



At last from the furthest recesses of 
Fife 
Came Macduff with a force of his own; 
Put an end to Macbeth, after murderous 
strife. 
And gave Malcolm the use of the throne. 
Thus fell the conspirators, e'en though 
they got 
Prom the witches a queer shibboleth; 
And, from that day to this, there is cer- 
tainly not 
Any rival to Mrs. Macbeth. 
21 




FALSTAFF. 



Before the days of anti-fat 

There lived a doughty knight, 
A sort of walking liquor vat. 

Who ev'ry day got tight. 
He guzzled sack at such a pace. 

To stop he knew not when; 
It took a mile of belt to brace 

His knightly abdomen. 



His name was Falstaff and the same 

His nature did express; 
For false stutt, never feeling shame, 

He dealt in to excess. 
He was the greatest fakir that 

Great Britain eer produced, 
And never cared where he was at 

When once his tongue was loosed. 
22 



•The knight Was fond of ladies fair; 

A gay jLiOthario he. 
He went to Windsor once and there 

vVitn matrons two maae tree. 
Fair Mistress l^age and Mistress Ford 

iiincnained the rascal's gaze. 
He vowed to each tnat he adored 

Her charms and winning ways. 



These "Merry Wives of Windsor" laid 

A trap to catch tne Knignt. 
A false pretense of love uiey made 

Whicn iooied the lucKiess wignt. 
They maae mm in a basKet nide 

From tnose who came to seek; 
And when ne once was fast inside 

They threw him in the creek. 



Again they lured him on and dressed 

The knight in woman's clothes. 
Witch hunters cnased him then with 
zest 

And multiplied his woes. 
His carcass lat they kicked and cuffed, 

i^elabored, smacKea ana switcned. 
Says Falstaff, "I'm a Propnet stulted 

L<ik© Cleveland, or bewitched." 

And once at night those matrons twain 

Enticed him to a dell, 
Where goblins tried, with might and 
main. 
His am'rous mood to quell. 
They pinched his flesh and burned his 
toes 
And pulled his scanty hair. 
Says Falstaff, "That's enough; here 
goes; 
I'll try a change of air." 



To London fast himself he hied 

And bottled sack consumed, 
Until of Keeley cure he died 

And fitly was entombed. 
To fat men Falstaff's life should be 

A warning to refrain 
Prom rum and wenches, which, you see. 

Upset this fat man's brain. 
23 




ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 

Antony he was a Roman bold, 

With a handsome face and a heap of 

gold. 
When Brutus and Cassius to pieces went. 
To rule over Asia he was sent. 
And there, at Tarsus, one day he met 
A widow whose charms he could ne'er 

forget. 
Mrs. Cleopatra— that was her name; 
And to capture a beau was her little 

game. 



Refrain. 

See Antonius gazing on her lovely face. 
Pouring forth his sentiments with ease 

and grace; 
Not another suitor could get in the race. 

They fitted one another like a glove. 
*'Come with me to Egypt, honeybird," 

says she; 
"Certainly," says Antony, "I'll stick to 

thee." 
When from duty fellows thus inanely 
flee. 
That is love; that is love. 
24 



At Alexandria Antony stayed 

For numerous moons with the lovesick 
maid. 

She was a queen, and of long green stuff 

For all expenses had quite enough. 

Adown the Cydnus in boats they sailed. 

And with hugs and kisses themselves re- 
galed, . 

Till a telegraph message arrived from 
Rome, 

Which summoned the amorous Antony 
home. 

Refrain. 

See Antonius weeping as his bark he 

steers 
Far away from Cleopatra, bathed in 

That he never may return the widow 
fears; 
She is like a tender stricken dove. 

"Antony, my petlet," o'er the brine she 
cries; 

*'Come back soon again and live in para- 
dise." 

Twenty miles away he heard her sobs 
and sighs— 
That is love; that is love. 

Octavius Caesar was now the boss 

In Rome, and when Antony came across 

"A truce to your monkey work," he said; 

"My sister Octavia you shall wed." 

The wedding took place, and the bridal 

pair 
To Asia went for change of air; 
But Antony, tired of wedded life, 
Went back to Egypt and shook his wife. 

Refrain. 

See Antonius meet again his beauteous 

queen. 
Widows are his weakness; that is plainly 

seen. 
"Mark you, Cleopatra," he remarks, "I've 

been 
Forced for you my wife aside to shove." 
"What of that, my love?" the lady softly 

coos, 
"Don't let little things like that give you 

the blues, 
For when people don't know which' s wife 

is whose, 
That is love; that is love." 
25 



't'oun^ 6ctavius came over the sea; 

He whipped Antonlus and made him flee» 

Antonius thoug-ht he had been betrayed 

By Cleopatra, and so he made 

A skillful attempt at suicide, 

And then in the lady's arms he died. 

Here the widow's heart in anguish 

breaks, 
And she dies of a genuine case of snakes. 

Refrain. 

See Antonius done up; Cleopatra, too; 
See the flow'rs wherewith kind friends 

their grave bestrew; 
See the legend on a tombstone, fair to 

view, 
"Both Of 'Em (perhaps) Have Gone 

Above." 
People think, "Well, well, it doesn't seem 

to pay 
When a married gentleman becomes too 

gay." 
But the sentimental ones drop tears and 

say, 
"That is love; that is love." 
26 






t2V 




ELECTION DAT. 



Daybreak: The dawn with smiling- face 
Illuminates the polling place; 
Lights up the frosty sidewalk where 
Election officers repair, 
To figure out with caution due 
"Which one is which and who is who, 
And, swearing one another in, 
The business of the day begin. 
Inspectors, clerks and judges, all 
Within the booths themselves install; 
And watchers, early on the ground. 
Look wise and idly stand around 
Till with a self-approving grin. 
The first stray voter ambles in. 
A candidate or two comes by 
To see that nothing is awry. 
And in the foreground, full of grace, 
A copper stands and twirls his mace. 
28 



Midday: Now doth the fight wax hot, 

A hundred men are on the spot; 

The heeler, rounder, thug and bloat 

Beset |the man who wants to vote. 

In all directions, left and right, 

Police and firemen are in sight, 

With hosts of other active chaps, 

Who live on soft official snaps. 

The challenger now cuts a swath 

And leaves his victims white with wrath. 

Prone in the dust will he be laid 

Whose taxes yet remain unpaid. 

The candidates, with anxious air, 

Are here and there and ev'ry where; 

Liquor there is in large supply; 

From hand to hand the greenbacks fiy. 

While calm and heedless of the fray 

The Baker ballot pounds away. 

Evening: The hard-fought battle's o'er, 
The warriors cleansed themselves of 

gore. 
Still on the sidewalk loafs the crowd, 
Beery, obstreperous and loud. 
The board within takes off its coat. 
And figures up the total vote. 
At last returns are given out, 
And greeted with a rousing shout. 
Moved by the mob's approving cheers, 
The winners set up countless beers. 
The losers, when they hear the news. 
Sneak off unseen and get the blues. 
This ends it all. At once the town 
Gets sobered up and simmers down; 
Business resumes its even flow. 
All things return to statu quo. 
And war's alarms are filed away 
Until the next election day, 

29 




JIM BLAINE. 

"Blaine, Blaine!"— No more that cry shall 

be 
In chorus raised from sea to sea 

With jubilation. 
For just as victory's jeweled crown 
Was in his grasp, our Jim backs down. 

And scares the nation. 



Republicans on bended knees 
Entreated Jimmy— Would he please 

Be standard bearer? 
A unit in his cause they stood, 
And swore that thus they'd stay; what 
could 

Than this be fairer? 



Lon^ like a sort of modern sphinx, 

Jim held his peace, as though, methinks, 

The prospect liking. 
Those states that boast of fav'rite sons 
Felt positive that soon their guns 

He would be spiking. 

30 



B. Harrison with steps infirm 
Marched feebly on, a second term 

In office seeking, 
While others, in the background hid, 
Made for B. H.'s shoes a bid, 

Reserved and sneaking. 



But just as long as Blaine kept mum 
And people thought he'd forward come 

At any minute, 
Those other chaps of minor note 
Could bank on not a single vote— 

They were not in it. 



Hence are we stricken with surprise 
While, unrestricted, from our eyes 

Hot tears are welling. 
To hear that Blaine's resolved at last 
The people's gift aside to cast. 

High hopes dispelling. 



Thus does the cruel hand of fate 
Leave Quay without a candidate; 

He's one of many 
Who, if for Blaine they cannot vote. 
Won't climb into the selfsame boat 

With little Benny. 



Where are we now to take our stand. 
With scores of lesser lights on hand 

To claim succession? 
Alger and Sherman, Cullom, Reed 
And Bill McKinley seek to lead 

The big procession. 



But stifled is the public voice; 

We're powerless now to make a choice,— 

That's how we view it— 
Since we're forever robbed of him 
Whose cinch was ironclad— Confound you, 
Jim, 

Why did you do it? 

31 




GROVER'S BEACON. 



There stands 'way up north, on a wave- 
beaten coast, 
A cottage, old-fashioned and gray, 
That defies the wild Storm King's infuriate 
host. 
Sweeping nightly across Buzzards Bay. 
There a babe and its mother in solitude 
sleep, 
Far away from the object they love, 
While with touching devotion they fail 
not to keep 
A light in the window for Grove. 



Refrain. 



Far, far away 

From the statesman they ardently love. 
Until after election 
They'll keep with affection 

A light in the window for GroVe. 

32 



If Grove is elected, that candle will be 
To the White house transferred the next 
day, 
And whene'er the old man knocks around 
in D. C, 
To his home it will lighten the way. 
Mrs. C. may be mad and Miss Ruth be in 
tears 
When the boss arrives, chewing* a clove, 
But there's one thing that never will fall 
in arrears — 
That light in the window for Grove. 

Refrain.— Far, far away, etc. 

If Grove is defeated, in sorrow he'll slink 

Buzzards bayward, to drop out of sight. 
Such a backset would drive weaker spirits 
to drink. 
Or at least to get partially tight. 
But there still will be one thing to lighten 
the blow. 
Though misfortunes flock round in a 
drove; 
'Tis that blessed, unchanging, affectionate 
glow 
Of the light in the window for Grove. 

Refrain.— Far, far away, etc. 

So cheer up, Mrs. C, don't be gloomy of 
soul. 
What's the odds if your hubby is 
whipped? 
He's hardly entitled to kick, on the whole, 

If by Ben in the race he's outstripped. 
You and Ruth can console him in chill 
winter nights. 
When you're all huddled up round the 
stove. 
By recalling the one thing wherein he de.- 
lights — 
That light in the window for Grove. 

Refrain.— Far, far away, etc 
33 




QUEEN LIL.. 



With teardrops in her lovely eyes, 
The Sandwich Lily came 
To Grover, 
Good old Grover. 
To reassume her queenly guise 
She sweetly filed a claim 
With Grover, 
Good old Grover. 
Says she, "Oh, Mr. President, you're chiv- 
alrous, I know; 
You would not he a party to a lady's over- 
throw, 
And hence for restoration quite confiding- 
ly I go 

^To Grover, 
*Good old Grover." 
34 



Her skin as dark as Erebus, 
Her air of regal grace 
Caught Grover, 
Good old Grover. 
*Tm happy, madam, to discuss 
Your interesting case," 
Quoth Grover, 
Good old Grover. 
■'Your dusky kind of beauty has its own 

peculiar charm 
That moves me to relieve you from the 

slightest dread of harm. 
If any one is competent your foemen to 
disarm. 

It's Grover, 

Good old Grover." 

He summoned then the cabinec, 
Which held a grave pow-wow 
With Grover, 
Good old Grover. 
They said, "We'll help the lady yet 
And set her right somehow 
Through Grover, 
Good old Grover. 
The age of chivalry endures; on that it's 

safe, to bank; 
And since some scamps have ventured 

Lily's crown away to yank, 
Who is there in the universe that can re- 
store her rank 

But Grover, 
Good old Grover?'* 

The smoothest goldsmith in the town 
Was summoned, and he came 
To Grover, 
Good old Grover. 
**Oh, make me quick a golden crown 
With jewels in the same," 
Said Grover, 
Good old Grover. 
The crown was made; no monarch could 

a finer head-dress wear; 
Instanter it was placed upon the Lily's 

kinky hair, 
And now the greatest man on earth, Ha- 
waiians all declare. 
Is Grover, 
Good old Grover. 
35 




THE CZAR. 

The Czar prowls around with a crown on 
his head. 
And jewels bedecking- his clothes, 
While his subjects around him are howling 
for bread 
Which to give them he doesn't propose. 
Small wonder that bombshells are thrown 
with a view 
His royal appearance to mar. 
And that people should ask, as they fre- 
quently do, 
What on earth is the use of the Czar? 



He has prying policemen, who revel in 
fees. 
Contingent on ev'ry arrest, - 
Oligarchic marauders who do as they 
please. 
And do it with merciless zest. 
Though you're guiltless of crime, they'll 
arrest you on sight, 
And send you to prison afar, 
In Siberia's wastes, where you'll think day 
■> and night 
What on earth is the use of the Czar? 
36 



Petowsky gets banished for winking his 
eye, 
Pefoffsky "because of his looks, 
Poniwisky because he's indulged in a sigh, 

And Kawoskl for fooling with books. 
And so many male Owskys and Offskys 
are fired, 
That, as if by the fortune of war, 
Farms are turned into deserts, and then 
'tis inquired 
What on earth is the use of the Czar? 

The Hebrews in Russia are hard-working 
souls, 
With a habit of saving their cash. 
"Drive them out!" roars the Czar, who has 
had a few bowls, 
"Drive them out, or I'll do something 
rash." 
So out they are driven with curses and 
jeers 
And many an infamous scar. 
Yes, indeed, 'tis a question to puzzle the 
seers : 
What on earth is the use of the Czar? 

Our government's sending a shipload of 
grain 
To Russia, the poor to relieve; 
And a chance now we'll have that may 
not come again 
A righteous exploit to achieve. 
Man the vessel with mariners powerful 
of lung. 
And instruct every jolly Jack Tar, 
That on landing the chorus sublime must 
be sung: 
What on earth is the use of the Czar? 
37 




THE SILVERITES. 



Listen to the never ending chin, 

Silver chin. 
What a world of prosy yarns the toga- 
wearers spin, 
As they gabble, gabble, gabble 

Every morning, noon and night, 
Like some idiotic rabble 
That goes in for idle babble 

With unlimited delight, 
Prosing on, on, on. 
Never, never to get done. 
And for popular opinion they seem not to 

care a pin, 
As they chin, chin, chin, chin, chin, chin, 

chin, 
As they wantonly and garrulously chin. 

Hear the voice of Stewart— he's a bore, 

Ancient bore. 
Every day you're sure to find him spouting 
on the floor. 
How he proses, proses, proses, 

Quoting figures by the yard, 
And outlandish schemes proposes. 

Which his colleagues must discard! 
He is slick, slick, slick, 
88 



And to silver he will stick, 
Till the surface of gehenna ultimately 

freezes o'er. 
He's a bore, bore, bore, bore, bore, bore, 

bore, 
An obnoxious and insufferable bore. 

Peffer, too, inanely blows his horn, 

Silver horn. 
In the side of level headed people he's a 
thorn. 
He keep& quoting, quoting, quoting 

From innumeiable books, 
And repeaters bent on voting 

Find they can't get in their hooks. 
For old Peff, Peff, Peff 
To all arguments is deaf. 
And his hearers w.sh he never (here's 

where Peff is met with scorn) 
Had been born, born, born, born, born, 

born, born^ 
'Tis a pity that old Peff was ever born. 

Cameron and Allen have their say, 

S.tupid say. 
But they cannot capture such a bright old 
bird as Quay. 
Though they're swearing, swearing-, 
swearing. 
That free coinage can't be downed, 
Matthew Stanley isn't caring. 

And with firmness holds his ground. 
Saying, "Don, Don, Don, 
All your prestige now is gone, 
Having thrown your party loyalty un- 

blushingly away. 
You're too gay, gay, gay, gay, gay, gay 

gay, 
For the Keystone state, old chap, you are 
too gay." 

What's the use of wasting time in fur- 
ther chat, 

Idle chat? 
How can we find out where we financially 
are at 
If in talking, talking, talking, 

All the senate's time is spent. 
While the nation's hope it's balking 

To a pitiful extent? 
Making breaks, breaks, breaks, 
And nonsensical mistakes. 
Yes, the senate does its talking— please to 

make a note of that- 
Through its hat, hat, hat, hat, hat, hat, 

hat. 
Through its brickbat-lined and humbug- 
cov'ring hat. 

30 




THE RACE FOR OFFICE. 



Was there ever a queerer district than 
the Twenty-fourth congressional, 
Where you cannot throw a stone hut 
what you hit a candidate? 
You can see them flocking forward in a 
manner that's processional, 
Defying any citizen to do his voting 
straight. 
Oh, it's wonderful the sight that greets 
the visitor that catches on 
To things as there they stand to-day 
and the circumstances probes, 
He'll encounter Andy Stewart, Sipe and 
Editor Erny Acheson, 
Together with Johnny Cox and Rev. 
Campbell Set-Up Jobes. 



**Can it be," he'll cry in wonder, "that 
these chaps are all petitioners 
For a single seat in congress? Bless 
my soul, it can't be so!'* 
Yet it doesn't take an inquiry by elec- 
toral commissioners 
40 



To find that every man of 'em believes 
he has a show. 
Each keeps hustling" like a major and 
proclaims that he a dandy is, 

And ready his antagonists with awful 
force to swipe; 
That's the kind of a ranting, roaring pol- 
itician Colonel Andy is, 

And also Rev. Set-Up Jobes, Cox, Ache- 
son and Sipe. 



In Fayette the folks are furious; in 
Greene they are uproarious. 
And here in Allegheny they are simply 
raising Cain; 
Little Washington is swearing" in a style 
that's quite notorious, 
And Homestead vows that Chris and 
Flinn won't boss the boys again. 
Up in Uniontown the hayseed politicians 
(sly old foxes) say 
They'll never support a bolter— they'd 
prefer to be undone; 
And they watch with breathless interest 
the feats that Sipe and Cox essay. 
Together with Colonel Andy, Jobes and 
Erny Acheson. 



Where, oh, where, we'd like to know, is 
all this rumpus going to terminate? 
And who will be the gory-handed victor 
over which? 
When everybody means a heap of rivals 
to exterminate. 
There's sure to be for somebody a mon- 
umental hitch. 
Now, we don't pretend to prophesy, but 
to state the truth in type is well. 
Old Nick himself can't name the winner 
till the plum he knocks. 
But it's certain that there's fun ahead 
for Set-Up Jobes and Sipe as well. 
Together with Colonel Andy,Erny Ache- 
son and Cox. 

41 



LI'S DEGRADATION. 



PROLOGUE. 

Some time ago all China rang" 

With words of praise for Li Hung Chang, 

The general-in-chief. 
He was the Emp'ror's right-hand man, 
But in the fracas with Japan, 

Alas, he came to grief. 
Because the Emp'ror, tired of chinning, 
Had set his royal heart on winning. 

ACT I. 

Li Hung sent out some sailor chaps 
With iron ships to whip the Japs- 
It was a grand array. 
But suddenly with furious shout 
The Japs came on and knocked 'em out 

And drove those ships away. 
Poor Li Hung had to stand the racket, 
And lost for this his yellow jacket. 
42 



ACT II. 

In North Corea, near Ping Yan 

The Chinese massed and dared Japan 

To meet them face to face. 
At this the Japs got out the ax 
And slew those bluffers in their tracks 

To China's great disgrace. 
The Emp'ror, rattled altogether, 
Now stripp'd off Li Hung's peacock 
feather. 

ACT III. 

At Pee-Ka-Boo, just as before, 

The Japs shed streams of Chinese gore. 

And made the pigtails fly. 
They captured drums and guns and stores 
And fugitives in scores and scores. 

And this was rough on Li; 
For now the Emp'ror, tired of hitches. 
Deprived him of his silken breeches. 

ACT V. 

The Chinamen, to madness stung, 

Next hurled their forces at Wun Lung — 

This effort was supreme. 
But, as by some magician's art. 
The Japs just split those troops apart, 

And spoiled Li's greatest scheme. 
Whereat the Emp'ror, filled with loath- 
ing, 
Took off Li's costly underclothing. 

ACT IV. 

Now China tried a hope forlorn, 
Which by Japan was laughed to scorn, — 

She knew what was in store. 
At Hi-Lo-Jak they met again 
And half a million Chinamen 

Went down to rise no more. 
This was the last and worst disaster, 
And Li Hung lost his porous plaster. 

EPILOGUE. 

Whene'er the cruel war is o'er 
And China quits to fight no more, 

A lesson having learned. 
The world will watch with bated breath 
To see what treatment worse than death 

Li Hung will then have earned. 
Oh, truly, 'twill be base excess 
To strip him of his nakedness. 
43 




THE MAID OP ORLEANS. 

She was young, she was fair, 
She had long- and wavy hair, 
She was gay and free from care 

As a lark, 
Till one evening while by chance 
She was lying in a trance, 
Something said, "Go fight for France, 

Joan of Arc.'* 

At Orleans just then there lay 
British troops prepared to slay. 
And the dogs of war each day 

Used to bark. 
Poor King Charles was yet uncrowned 
And he feared he would be downed, 
Till the neighbors brought around 

Joan of Arc. 

"Bless your majesty," says Joan, 
You will soon be on the throne, 
Let me play this hand alone" 

(Save the mark!) 
"Very well," observed the king, 
"Go ahead and have your fling, 
But it is a risky thing, 

Joan of Arc." 
44 



Soon a charger Joan bestrode, 
Wearing: armor a la mode, 
And of fear the lady showed 

Not a spark. 
*Tm your general now," said she, 
And the army yelled with glee, 
For it did 'em good to see 

Joan of Arc. 

With a sword of monstrous heft, 
Joan the foreign army cleft. 
And those Britishers were left 

Stiff and stark. 
Then to Rheims the king she led. 
Put the crown upon his head. 
"Pray accept this token,'' said 
Joan of Arc. 

Honors great the Maid acquired. 
But of quiet growing tired. 
Was in war again inspired 

To embark. 
But the English were her match. 
For they managed Joan to catch, 
Aye, and hastened to dispatch 

Joan of Arc. 

Oh, French hearts were like to break 
When they burnt her at the stake 
As a witch; and hence we make 

This remark: 
Better far to seek a mate 
And enjoy the married state. 
Than attempt to emulate 

Joan of Arc. 
45 




IRISH LOGIC. 

Says Patrick O' Casey to Dan Moriarty: 

"Och, Dan'l, phat's wrong- wid the Dim- 
mycrat party? 

In ould Pennsylvania it used to be hearty, 
But now, be me sowl, it's disayzed. 

There's lashins av bosses that hither and 
hither 

Kape pullin', but bless yez they can't kape 
togither. 

Such eejots the healthiest party wud with- 
er 
That iver Americans raised. 



"There's Pattison sittin' alone in his 

glory, 
While Wallace an' Harrity shtart in a 

gory 
Death sthruggle, an' Guffey is hammered 
before he 
Has time to get into the fuss. 
There's Brennen, O'Larey, an' Larkin an' 
Foley, 
Wid Boyle, that wee gossoon, whose 
form's roly-poly, 
To factional fightin' they're given up 
wholly. 
Nice ducks to have pow'r over us." 
46 



Says Dan Moriarty to Patrick O' Casey, 
*'Phy, Pat, sure to answer your ques- 
tion is aisy, 
The cause av the scrappin' is not a bit 
hazy, 
'Tis thruth, be the mortial, I sphake. 
'Tis the ould Irish blood that is back av 

the rumpus. 
An' that pints out the fact at all pints 

av the compass 
That clubs among Irishmen always the 
thrump is; 
Now that's what makes Dimmycrats 
"wake." 

"To the divil," shouts Pat, **wid yer lang- 
widge disgraceful. 

"The Irish, ye spalpeen, are dacent an* 
paceful, 

Wid holes in a minute I'd fill yer ould 
face full." 
So saying he hits Dan a cuff. 

"Arrah, would yez?" says Dan, coming 
back with a soaker, 

"If clubs isn't thrumps, phy then here is 
the joker;" 

And so they play hob, while some white- 
livered croaker 
Yells "Dimmycrat doctrine's the stuff!" 



There's a moral to this that's not hard to 

unravel ; 
If Democrats would at the enemy cavil 
Alone, nor away from that policy travel. 

To make one another eat crow, 
They'd be certain to prosper, and oft 

in the battle 
By action united the hostiles to rattle 
Instead of just butting each other like 
cattle 
And leaving the field to the foe. 
47 




WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY. 

This is the great and glorious day 
When liars in the background stay, 
Induced pro tern, themselves to quash 
In honor of the late G. Wash, 
Who, when his father's plants he'd hack, 
Got off on the veracious tack, 
And said, with candor in his eye, 
"Father, I cannot tell a lie, 
E'en though the rod wear out my pants: 
'Twas I destroyed your valued plants"; 
Which frank confession moved his dad 
To pardon and reward the lad. 

Of course we cannot all come out 
Like George in his wood-chopping bout. 
For why? Well, that is just because 
Our dads are not as George'^ was. 
If valuable trees we chop. 
Our governors to think won't stop, 
But with a rawhide fell let loose 
And lam us like the very deuce; 
Whereas, if they'd but grant a stay. 
We, too, might try the truthful lay, 
Win plaudits by our honest sta-nd. 
And check the stern parental hand. 
48 



I 



How times have changed since George let 

fly 
With active ax and truthful eye! 
Degeneracy leaves its trace 
On parents well-nigh every place, 
And truthful boys, whose dads Won't trust. 
To lying take in sheer disgust. 
Hence comes that awful social pest, 
The fakir, who, as if possessed 
Of Satan, labors with success 
To fool the public through the press, 
And broadcast through the country strews 
Installments large of bogus news. 

Thank Providence we don't belong 
To those who thusly have gone wrong. 
The fakir's dodges ne'er come nigh 
Our haunts— We cannot tell a lie. 
Full often with our little ax 
We lay folks prostrate in their tracks; 
And if we're charged with talking bosh. 
We use the words of young G. Wash. 
So, mark you, in a special way . 
We seek to celebrate the day 
Devoted to that noble youth 
Who slung an ax anci told the truth. 
49 




ELECTION NIGHT. 



At last we've reached election eve, 

And some are glad, 

And some are sad. 
Hearts throb apace for Cleve and Steve, 

Or palpitate for Ben. 
The wisest can't exactly guess 

What fate's decree 

Is booked to be. 
And hope is mingled with distress 
'Mid stalwart party men. 



B. H. is strong; why should we fear 
That m the fray 
Collapse he may, 
Since aptly he knows how to steer 

The gallant ship of state? 
But, bless you, there are turns and tricks 
In ev'ry trade 
Adroitly made. 
And thus, in this confounded mix, 
He may capitulate. 
50 



Per contra, there's no reason why 

G. C. should dupe 

Us all and scoop 
The pot, although the public eye 
Sees where-his hand is weak. 
Yet Grove has sharpers at his back, 

Who know enough 

With skill to bluff. 
And threaten now the cards to "stack"- 
How's that for icy cheek? 

Election bets amount to "nix." 

The "gams," you'll find 

Must go it blind. 
And while one-half get in their licks 

The other half get left. 
And he who blows his horn the most 

Will, like as not, 

Be nicely caught, 
And feel like giving up the ghost 
When of his pile bereft. 

Alas! that in this age of guilo 
And irksome doubt 
We are without 
An oracle of Delphic style 
To give us tips exact! 
But failing this, what can we do 
Except to wait 
And speculate? 
So, till the voters all get through, 
We'll do the anxious act. 
61 




COLUMBUS. 

Bring the good old Caravel across the 

seas, yeo-ho! 
Bring her as she first was brought four 

hundred years ago, 
When she came for Yankeeland a-hunting 

high and low. 
Thanks to the nerve of Columbus. 

Chorus. 

Hurrah, hurrah! Let's sing the praise of 

Chris. 
Hurrah, hurrah! Just think what we 

would miss 
If Chris had never stumbled on a land so 

fair as this; 
That's what we owe to Columbus. 



In the town of Genoa Columbus first drew 

breath. 
People there still ask you, "Didgenoabout 

his death?" 
For he is forgotten there; so many an ex- 
pert sairh; 
That's pretty rough on Columbus. 
52 



Pedag-ogues insisted that the earth was 
wholly flat; 

Christopher declared he couldn't let it 
g-o at that. 

Thereupon the nincompoops with big rat- 
tans got at 
And tanned the hide of Columbus. 

Christopher grew up and went a-sailing 
on the sea. 

**In the course of time I'll knock out Cap- 
tain Cook," thought he. 

Cook had not been born yet, but the gift 
of prophecy 
Lurked in the soul of Columbus. 

Isabella met the lad (she was the Queen 

of Spain); 
Thought he was dead gone on her, for 

Belle was pretty vain. 
"Christopher," she said, "for thee my bank 

account I'll drain." 
Right in the swim was Columbus. 

Bella she put up the cash; Columbus did 

the rest; 
Sailed away from Palos toward the undis- 
covered west. 
Everybody thought the scheme was but 
a merr"- jest; 
But they were fooled in Columbus. 

Glorious the triumph was when Yankee- 
land he struck. 

Filled with copper-colored folks and lota 
of g-arden truck. 

"Gentlemen," says Christopher, "this Is a 
run of luck." 
Those were the words of Columbus. 

Other foreign immigrants came after, 
when they saw 

That the Indians didn't have a contract la- 
bor law; 

Hence the Union flourishes with more or 

All on account of Columbus. 

Therefore join us, young and old, and 

make the welkin ring". 
Hymns of jubilation let us all in chorus 

sings. 
Thankful for the good things that continue 

still to spring 
Out of the cruise of Columbus. 

03 




THE SOUTHERN CAVALIER. 

Come hither, ye people, and hear us sing 
The tale of ye knighte Sir Henry King. 

A doughty cavalier was he, 

And he lived in the state of Tennessee. 



Sir Henry's middle name was Clay, 
And he moistened the same the livelong 
day. 

For in Tennessee there is no lack 
Of the good old Bourbon tamarack. 

And when Sir Henry a jaglet wore, 

He was ready for barrels of human gore. 

Spear and buckler he did not don. 

For those things out of fashion had gone. 

But to cope with bluster and idle vaunts. 
He carried a gun in his knightly pants. 

54 



And hostilities came to a sudden stop 
Whenever Sir Henry got the drop. 

Posten he was an esquire plain, 

Who practiced law for the sake of gain. 

He plead the case of a wounded dove, 
Who had been Sir Henry's light o' love. 

For her the knight, of his senses stripped. 
Away from his wife and babes had 
skipped. 

And now her return for his conduct rash 
Was to capture the whole of his ready 
cash. 

Posten rebuked the knight in style, 
And proved that he was a scoundrel vile. 

•T faith," said the knight, with his teeth 

tight set, 
'Til have revenge upon Posten yet." 

So he waited without in the public street, 
And laid the esquire dead at his feet. 

Yeomen came in coats of blue 

And led off the knight without much ado. 

The courts they hastened the case to try, 
And informed Sir Henry that he must die. 

And so this knight of the race of King 
Was doomed on the gallows tree to swing. 

Unexpectedly into the game 

The governor. Baron Buchanan, came. 

Says he, "By my halidome, this won't do, 
The blood of the Kings is of azure hue. 

*'And why should Sir Henry be undone 
For the chivalrous use of his little gun? 

"Is southern chivalry dead that thus 
The gallows must gobble the cream of us? 

"No, no; to hang an aristocrat 

Is a positive crime; I'll have none of that." 

That settled the case; Sir Henry then 
Went off pro tem. to a cell in the "pen," 

55 



From which In the course of time, no 

doubt, 
His friends will see that he's pardoned 

out. 

Nobility thus a victory won, 
While the band played "Johnny, Get Your 
Gun." 

And southern cavaliers wept for joy 
To think they could still their foes de- 
stroy. 

Howls went up from a violent mob. 
Which claimed the thing was a lawless 
job. 

But folks who haven't a family tree 
Amount to nothing in Tennessee. 

Hence Baron Buchanan and his compeers. 
Rejoicing, tackled the cup that cheers. 

And they put a sign on the gallows high: 
"No blooded murderers need apply." 

56 



MigcEiiii^NEeag. 



^7 




CHAUTAUQUA. 

Chautauqua! O thou sacred spot, 
Where idle tourists linger not; 
Where vulgar sports, of habits low, 
Their brazen faces never show; 
Where fakirs for their arts profane 
A license ask, but ask in vain; 
And where enlightened laws exclude 
The noxious lady-killing dude; 
The vivid fact we can't disguise— 
Thou art a Christian paradise. 



Pure are the ways thou walkest in, 
Unlike those garish haunts of sin, 
Seaside resorts, where throng like sheep 
The vulgar, making angels weep. 
Tom, Dick and Harry there combine 
To soak themselves with rosy wine. 
Along the beach the maidens scoot. 
Each in a scanty bathing suit. 
The righteous man, with burning cheek, 
Must turn from these thy charms to seek, 
58 



Lo, in thy temples do we find 
Sublime reflection for the mind. 
Thy people nearly all possess 
A score of titles, more or less. 
Doctors, Professors, Reverends, too, 
In all directions are on view; 
And every one his chance doth wait 
To mount the platform and orate. 
Thine is, in fact, Chautauqua dear, 
A most didactic atmosphere. 



Rostrums and blackboards huge abound; 
They're utilized by thinkers sound; 
Philosophers with heads that bulge, 
Who scientific truths divulge; 
Linguists well versed in ev'ry freak 
Of Latin, Hebrew, French and Greek; 
Artistic sharps who'd have you know 
That they could teach Mike Angelo. 
Glory is theirs that never fades 
In blest Chautauqua's classic shades. 



The woman on the suffrage lay— 
Of course, you know, "she'd-talk-away," 
And so she does. Her light's not hid, 
For John stays home to mind the kid, 
And while his hand the cradle rocks 
She lectures on the ballot box. 
This feat, so woman-like and cute, 
Brings forth the handkerchief salute, 
And as the girls the speaker greet. 
They vow Chautauqua's "just too sweet." 



Alas, Chautauqua, with distress 

The ghastly truth we must confess. 

With thee and thine we can't consort. 

Because on goodness we are short. 

Excuse our conscienceless remarks, 

But we prefer midsummer larks 

To hearing the discourse complex 

Of Doctor Y. or Reverend X. 

Therefore, thy charms with reverend awe 

We'll worship from afar. 

Ta, ta. 
59 




THE BARBER. 



Victim in the barber shop 
Has a heavy thatch on top; 
Has a crop of whisker rough, 
Wants to have 'em both cut off. 
Peels off collar, coat and vest, 
Lets the barber do the rest. 



Barber takes his prey in tow, 
Oils his tongue and lets her go, 
Hopes the razor doesn't pull, 
Tells of happ'nings wonderful; 
Baseball records, foreign wars. 
Habits of the planet Mars. 



Tariff schedules new and old 
He is happy to unfold; 
(Seafoam, sir? What, no? Then do 
Try my extra-fine shampoo"); 
fVeaks of great men he'll recite 
With unlimited delight. 
60 



Boxing? He is quite at hom6 
In the latest hippodrome. 
Yachts? What need to say that he 
Knows their points liite A, B, C. 
(Cut her close, sir? Ah, just so), 
Bless us, 'how his tongue does go! 



Messages from Cleveland's pen, 
Scandals in the Upper Ten, 
Newest dramas on the stage, 
Songs that have become the rage; 
(Part it on the side, you say?") 
Thus the barber pounds away. 



Victim stands it all he can. 
Bears up like a little "man; 
Barber's talk he can't avoid, 
Doesn't want to be destroyed; 
("Now, sir; wax on your mustache?") 
Victim's done and pays his cash. 



Barber, barber, some fine day 
Justice will assert her sway; 
Then to keep you clear of crime 
You'll be muzzled all the time. 
Think of this next time and spare 
Captives in your fatal chair. 

Gl 




TWO LITTLE GIRLS BLEW IN. 

An old man's nephew conversed one day 

With his uncle, a stager old, 
Who had formerly been on the am'rous 
lay, 

But whose ardor had now grown cold. 
*'My boy," quoth the unc, "hear the 
mournful tale 

Of two of your kith and kin, 
Whose marital hopes were of no avail 

Till two little girls blew in. 

Refrain. 



Two little girls blew in, lad, 

Two little girls blew in. 
We were brothers, they were sisters, 

Each of 'em was a twin. 
Two little girls blew in, lad, 
And here's where there came a hitch, 
None could without bother 
Tell one from the other. 
And few could tell whom was which. 
62 



We all fell in love in a mutual style, 

Pledges we interchanged. 
Fortune upon us was fain to smile, 

And the weddings were soon arranged. 
But, lad, in the hurry and bustle and whirl 

At the church— 'twas a shame and a 
sin- 
Each one of us married the other one's 
girl, 

When two little girls blew in. 

Ref.— Two little girls blew in, etc. 



What could we do in this terrible plight? 

Ah, lad, 'twas a trial sore. 
We went to Chicago that very same night 

And got a divorce for four. 
'Twas mournful to think of the time we 
had lost 

In our efforts those brides to win, 
Little knowing how sadly our lives wouM 
be crossed 

When two little girls blew in. 

Ref.— Two little girls blew in, etc. 



But stay— there's a sequel— whene'er we 
got back, 
And the torrents of tears had dried, 
We somehow resumed the original track. 

And for marital bliss we sighed. 
So we shuffled the pair, and quick as a 
flash 
Each wedded a blooming twin. 
And 'twas awful the total of honeymoon 
cash 
Those two little girls blew in." 

Ref.— Two little girls blew in, etc. 

— With apologies to ** Two Little Girls in Blue ' 




ST. VALENTINE. 

St. Valentine, St. Valentine, 

In former days you used to shine 

With glory that was splendid; 
But in these sordid modern days 
No long-er does your glory blaze, 

Your day is nearly ended. 



No more the maid who's badly mashed 
Waits eagerly and unabashed 

Your long-expected coming. 
And when the postman heaves in sight 
Jumps up to meet him with delight 

And heart insanely drumming. 



No more she looks for Cupid's darts, 
Transfixing lovers' bleeding hearts 

With verses printed under; 
Nor views the lace and satin fair, 
The silver, gold and colors rare 

With ecstasy and wonder. 
64 



Ko Strephon who for her doth pm^ 
Sends in an eleg-ant design 

Of unexampled value, 
Conveying" in its ins and outs 
The sighs of "Streph,'* the fears, the 
doubts, 

The "will you?" and the "shall you?" 

No, no, at most she gets a screed 
That makes her furious, indeed, 

A "comic" most insulting. 
That treads upon her tender toes. 
And indicates that ugly foes 

Are o'er her faults exulting. 

Perhaps it shows a wall-flower lone, 
A scrawny frame of skin and bone 

And corkscrew curls to match it, 
And says "This hatchet-faced old thing 
Will never wear a wedding ring; 

No man would care to catch it." 

Or else mayhap in manner gross 
It loads her down with adipose 

And pictures standing round her 
A gaping crowd of jays that cry 
"Get on to this. Who'll buy; who'll buy 

The sixteen hundred pounder?" 

And Strephon by some rascal rude 
Will be depicted as a dude. 

All clothes with nothing in 'em; 
A dawd er on the avenue 
Who looks for lovely girls to woo 

His precious self and win him. 

Such is the dire and painful pass 
To which the valentine, alas, 

Has come. Oh, 'tis a pity 
That love no more the artist's hand 
Directs and turns out verses grand. 

Harmonious, chaste and witty. 

St. Valentine, St. Valentine, 

Your pearls are cast these days to swine, 

Go seek your final slumber; 
For wherefore strive and strive and strive 
To keep your vital spark alive 

When you're an old back number? 
65 




THE HOLIDAYS. 

The holidays, the holidays! 

O days of love and joy and praise, 

When every heart with warmth expands 

And time hangs lightly on our hands; 

When people young and old unite 

In wild, hilarious delight; 

When enemies lay down the sword 

And heave their quarrels overboard; 

There's music in the very phrase — 

"The holidays, the holidays!" 



The holidays, the holidays! 
'Tis then that in a thousand ways 
The merchant stimulates surprise 
If he knows how to advertise. 
A sled, a drum, a pair of skates 
With ev'ry purchase he donates; 
Sells books for nothing (generous cuss!) 
And grows almost delirious. 
He'll tell you, if you ask what pays— 
"The holidays, the holidays!" 
66 



1 



The holidays, the holidays! 
Who is too poor to make a rais6 
And blow it in, with secret glee, 
On trimmings for the Christmas tree; 
On gifts to gratify the whim 
Of Kit tie, MoUie, Tom and Jim. 
Slippers for dad, a chain for ma, 
And something cheap for mother-in-law? 
What causes all this giving craze? 
The holidays, the holidays! 



The holidays, the holidays! 
With happiness they fairly blaze. 
See Santa Glaus, with skip and hop, 
Cavorting tow'rds the chimney top. 
While little folks in cosy beds 
Beneath the comforts hide their heads. 
And older ones with dread are racked 
While doing the Chriskingle act. 
List to the rattle of the sleighs!— 
The holidays, the holidays! 



The holidays, the holidays! 

The mem'ry of them with us stays; 

A gilt-edged mem'ry, strangely dear 

(We've got to wax pathetic here; 

For pathos is a simple ruse 

That Christmas poets always use)— 

Aye, faith, Horatio, many a one 

Will miss these pleasures when (he's gone. 

Lead on, then, to the giddy maze— 

The holidays, the holidays! 

67 




IRENE'S VOW. 

Irene Mac Welsh was passing fair, 
All hearts she took by storm; 

Her moral character was square 
And rounded was her form. 



Two lovers her young heart addressed; 

Two handsome, winsome "beauts"; 
Their Sunday suits they first got pressed. 

And then they pressed their suits. 

One was De Smith, a youth who throve 

As teller in a bank. 
Says he, "I'll tell 'er of my love 

And win 'er with my rank." 

The other was De Jones, a spry 

Young lawyer erudite. 
Quoth he, "I'll win the case if I 

Acquit myself aright." 

Now Irene took to sobs and sighs, 
To choose, the girl was loth, 

For— not to deal in idle lies- 
She idolized them both. 

as 



De Smith waxed hot; De Jones grew 
wrath, 

In unison they cried: 
"Two hands to give the lady hath, 

But how her heart divide?" 

Then did those youths find out a way 

Their troubles to dispel; 
A duel would, so reasoned they, 

Duelegantly well. 

Unto the football field they bent 
Their steps and bent 'em straight 

To where a very large per cent. 
Of heroes met their fate. 

Their weapons were* the flying wedge. 

The tackle and the punt. 
Of footfalls heavy as a sledge 

Each bore the murd'rous brunt. 

Soon, soon the bloody fray was o'er. 
The ball had crossed the goal. 

And both the youths lay in their gore. 
With not a bone left whole. 

Friends told Irene about the fray, 

How, in the wild attack, 
The twain who had been whole one dav 

The next came not half-back. 

Stunned by the blow, the maiden said: 
*"Tis I that slew those men; 

Henceforth on thorns will be my bed, 
ril ne'er touch down again." 
6& 




LULLABY. 

Over the mountains to Booze-Away Land 

Bye-bye, bye-bye, 
Where fairies are sporting on Tamarach 
strand, 

Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
Weary eyes closing and legs getting weak 
Tongue getting thick— ah, 'tis hard now tc 

speak. 
Papa's been on it, dear babe, for a week; 

Bye-bye, bye-bye. 



Daily he trudges to Barrelhouse Town, 

Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
His nose it is red and his taste is sea] 
brown. 

Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
Bright is the sheen of the -dollars hi 

spends. 
Setting 'em up for his thousands ol 

friends ; 
A white-aproned goblin upon him attends 
Bye-bye, bye-bye. 

TO 



Alcohol River's aglow in the sun, 

Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
Dad goes a-swimmin' when he has the 
"mon," 

Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
Rivulets enter its bosom so clear, 
Rhine wine, and claret, ale, porter and 

beer, 
But King Corn- Juice lays over 'em all, 
never fear. 

Bye-bye, bye-bye. 



See where the boas and copperheads play. 

Bye-bye, bye-bye; 
Always frisk round when the old man's 
that way, 

Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
Take him away where the Strait Jack- 
ets dwell. 
Into a cute little Hospital Cell; 
Medical fairies will soon make him well. 

Bye-bye, bye-bye. 



Grand is the Kingdom of Do-It-No-More, 

Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
Dad will land there when the circus is 
o'er. 

Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
O little babe, when to manhood you grow. 
Never to Booze-Away Land must you go; 
Look at your father, and tell me "No, no!" 

Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
71 




THE KEELEYITES. 



Yesterday with faces shining, 
Never the slightest bit repining 
For the days when they were wining 

And rampaging round at nights. 
In the baking, broiling weather, 
Out to Oakland all together, 
In the very highest feather 

Came the noble Keeleyites. 



Some could' not refrain from thinking" 
Of the fun they had in d.^inking. 
At saloonists slyly winking, 

(Those were genume delights.) 
Lager beer and Roman punches, 
Juleps, slings and barroom lunches, 
Soon would render quite unconscidus 

Those who now are Keeleyitds. 
73 



Medford rum and brandy smashes 
Absinthe gulped in modest dashes, 
(Don't you think a fellow rash is 

Who his brain with these excites?) 
Cocktails, cobblers, Tom and Jerry, 
Claret, port, champag-ne and sherry. 
All were guzzled by the merry 

Chaps who now are Keeleyites. 



Thus they'd go ahead competing, 

Everyone the other treating 

Till they'd have no time for eating. 

Nor for aught but crazy flights. 
Every night would find them staving. 
Ripping, roaring, ranting, raving 
And outrageously behaving, 

Those who now are Keeleyites. 



Finally their blood relations 
Tired of furious demonstrations. 
Would suspend recriminations 

And let up on useless fights. 
To the hospital they'd hurry, 
Make the topers thither scurry, 
Hoping thus to end their worry 

With the future Keeleyites. 



All this nonsense now is ended, 

Since the "topes" their way have 

wended 
To the place where Keeley's splendid 

Method gets 'em dead to rights. 
No more wine for them or liquors. 
They are stayers, aye and stickers, 
Regular sober old jimslickers 

Are those noble Keeleyites. 
73 




IN OLE KAINTUCK. 

Dar's ole Bill Breckinridge a-settin* up in 

co't 
Wirl people all admirin* him bekase he 

am so smart; 
His ha'r am white, but old Billy am a 

spo't; 
Mos' ebry pretty gal he sees plays hob 

wid Billy's heart. 
If de gal escapes, she's got a heap o* luck, 
Dat's de way we does down in old Kain- 

tuck. 



Dar's young Mattie Pollard, jes' as sweet 

as any peach, 
She caught old Mistah Bill mighty easy 

on de fly, 
Wen he sez "I love yo' " Mattie didn't 

screech 
She jes* sez **Willyum, no odah need 

apply." 
Each on de odah one immegiuntly wuz 

struck, 
Dat's de way we does down in old Kain- 

tuck. 

74 



Wen ole Bill wuz widdered, Mattie 

bought a little gun, 
"Willyum," sez she, "Don't yo' tink we 

oughter wed?" 
Sez ole Bill to Mat, "Well dis kind er 

takes de bun; 
Marry j^ou I won't, gal, so don' yo' lose 

yo' head." 
At dat Mattie's gun undah ole Bill's nose 

she stuck, 
Dat's de way we does down in old Kain- 

tuck. 

Ole Bill wuz scart; his face turned w'ite 

as snow, 
"Matti^" sez he, *Tm not ready yet ter 

die, 
If I mus' be yo' husband an' no longer be 

yo' beau. 
Drop dat *ar gun, an' de weddin' ring 

I'll buy." 
De ole man, yo' see, 'gainst a weppin 

couldn't buck, 
Dat's de way we does down in old Kain- 

tuck. 

Nex' t'ing yo' know, ole Bill he skips 

away; 
Gibs de gall de shake an' gets himself a. 

wife, 
"Well an' good," says Mat, "Now I t'ink 

de propah lay 
Is ter reach fo' Willyum's cash, 'stead 

ob Willyum's useless life;" 
So Mattie hired a lawyah her Willyum's 

wings ter pluck, 
Dat's de way we does down in olo Kain- 

tuck. 

Now dey's in de co't-rcom, both a bilin' 

mad, 
Mat she tells on Bill and Bill he tells 

on Mat, 
Oh, dem co't-room stories am real, real 

bad, 
ut all dem long-faced Christyuns seem 

awful glad ob dat. 
Maybe dey de case out dQ winder soon 

will chuck, 
Dat's de way we does down in ol© Kain- 

tuck. 

75 




^w 



PADDYWHISKY. 

A strain of mourning" fills the air; a strain 

of anguish keen, 
Because the god-like maeslro has vanished 

from the scene. 
Unto their grief our Pittsburg maids un- 
ceasingly give vent, 
The world for them has lost its charm 
since 

Paddy 
Whisky 

Went. 



The mem'ry of his tawny hair is like a 

bushy dream. 
Three feet of wiry waviness— a poet's fit- 
ting theme. 
Out, out upon close-shaven heads! Who 

cares a copper cent 
For ordinary barber work since 
Paddy * 
Whisky 

Went? 
70 



His features they are classic, and he has 

a melting" eye; 
He doesn't wear a spiketail coat like any 

common guy; 
His limblets are a poem, in their move- 
ments eloquent, 
We'll never see their like again since 
Paddy 
Whisky 

Went. 



They say he plays sonatas and symphonic 

thingumbobs, 
Which move expert musicians to indulge 

in pray'rs and sobs; 
But music doesn't enter to a very great 

extent 
Into what the girls are thinking of since 
Paddy 
Whisky 

Went. 



O ye who at his altar have been 

worshiping, suppose 
The whole ecstatic crowd go after "Pad" 

where'er he goes. 
'Tis only thus that kindred souls forever 

can be blent 
And wipe out all the pangs one feels since 
Paddy 
Whisky 

Went. 
77 




BALLADE. 

'Tis the fashion in the theaters in plain- 
tive tones to sing 
Of antiquities that reverence compel. 
There's the "hat me father wore" and 
grandma's matrimonial ring, 
And the oaken bucket hanging in the 
well. 
There is grandpa's eight-day clock and 
some one else's baby shoe; 
Shaky tenors love these relics to recall; 
But we've got a little token that can all 
of them outdo— 
Our thermometer that hangs upon the 
wall. 



Refrain. 

Touch it gently; handle it with care; 

Spurn it not, whatever may befall. 
Though 'tis knock-kneed now and crazy. 
Yet it used to be a daisy— 

Our thermometer that hangs upon the 
wall. 

7S 



Ah! how well do we remember when ^ 
quarter we blew in 
For that instrument— 'twas many years 
ago. 
Mother met us with a gurgle, and said fa- 
ther with a grin, 
"Bless you, lad, the heat henceforth 
we'll always know." 
On the porch we hung it proudly— there 
a splendid show it made, 
And the spectacle the neighbors did en- 
thral. 
For it registered immediately two hundred 
in the shade— 
Our thermometer that hangs upon the 
wall. 

Ref.— Touch it gently, etc. 

When the cruel winter came and brought 
along the snow and ice. 
Ninety-nine below the zero mark it 
showed. 
You can bet we wouldn't sell it then— no, 
not for any price, 
For with pride our system fairly over- 
flowed. 
Weather experts tried to down us, and 
gave lying figures out; 
Their audacity was such as to appall; 
But our friends would not go back on us 
—not one of 'em would doubt 
Our thermometer that hangs upon the 
wall. 

Ref.— Touch it gently, etc. 

In the end there came a scorcher; 'twas 
a broiling August day, 
And the mercury the "boiling point" had 
passed; 
But it couldn't stand the pressure, and to 
every one's dismay 
The thermometer was busted up at last. 
Bitter, bitter were our tears as with the 
keenest of regret 
Old Infallible we hastened to install 
In a place of lasting honor— and 'tis there 
you'll see it yet— 
Our thermometer that hangs upon the 
wall. 

Ref.— Touch it gently, etc. 
79 



W-r, 














SMILING SPRING. 

'Tis bound to come; we can't refrain 
From grinding- out a merry strain 

About the smiling spring. 
For, after many a chill rebuff, 
We've weather now that's not a bluff, 
But bona fide vernal stuff, 

The regulation thing. 

No more at morn a polar breeze 
Makes finger-tips and noses freeze 

And vegetation nips. 
No more good wives are lost in doubt. 
If they shall get their fire screens out 
Or put the dust and dirt to rout, 

And husbands thus eclipse. 

Behold, the festive bock beer sign 
Gets thirsty topers right in line— 

The prancing goat they hail. 

Saloonists hang out doors of green, 

The druggist works his fizz machine 

And hankey-pankey men are seen 

With mystic stuff for sale. 

80 



Light-coated dudes to§rether flock; 
(Their winter clothing is in hock), 

Their looks a smile invite. 
In tailors' windows cards appear, 
"Three-dollar pantaloonings here," 
Or "Coatings less than cost"— 'tis clear 

They're strictly out of sight. 

Policemen on their corners doze 

And dream of donning lighter clothes, 

With helmets made to match. 
The letter carrier hums a tune; 
He'll wear a fragile duster soon, 
For which as a superior boon 

He's now upon the watch. 

Suburban residents go wild, 

By seedsmen's gorgeous ads beguiled. 

And dig and rake like mad. 
Unhappy folk, how sad 'twill be 
"When of their work the fruits they see, 
Which somehow will not seem to gee 

With any seedsman's ad! 

The farmer— pessimistic chap- 
Arises from his winter nap. 

And navigates the plow; 
Puts in preliminary crops. 
Works day and night and never stops 
Unless a moment while he mops 

His overheated brow. 

The trees put on their choicest duds, 
By which we mean the leaves and buds: 

Small flow'rs stick up their heads 
The birds, with furtive looks of gloom. 
Get up a secret building boom. 
Domestic cares they will assume, 

When each the other weds. 

And human lovers— here we stick; 
The subject always makes us sick; 

No Tennyson in ours. 
The signs we've given should suffice 
To prove that spring's no more on ice, 
But serves to-day an extra slice 

Of sunshine and of flow'rs. 
81 




iS-^^^ 



JUNE. 

Bright month of June, to thee we sing, 

Two days ahead of time, 
Because our artist's taken wing, 
And left us not a blessed thing 
On which to build a rhyme, 
Except a 'ikeness fair to see 
Of thee, sweet June, of thee. 



O sunny June, we love to view 

The roses on thy cheek; 
And feel thy genial warmth anew, 
For May has made us mighty blue- 
Each day it sprang a leak. 
So if with joy you'd fill our cup, 
Dry up, sweet June, dry up. 
82 



O lively June— convention days 

'Tis thine to bring along; 
What time the politicians raise 
Partic'lar Cain, and Matthew Quay's 

Mailed hand controls the throng. 

This year you must keep clear of Matt, 

Mark that, sweet June, mark that. 

O festive June— when, dropping book 

And slate, Young Hopeful hails 
Vacation— need he now play hook? 
Not so, to thee he'll gladly look 

As one whose aid avails 

To bring eight weeks of solid fun. 

Well done, sweet June, well done. 

O kindly June— please don't forget 

To bring us summer heat. 
Straw hats are 'neath a cloud as yet, 
And no one has a chance to sweat; 

In fact by Prob we're beat. 

So, inasmuch as that's a sin, 

Pile in, sweet June, pile in. 
83 




'■''■tU\i' 



PICNIC SEASON. 

Now the picnic season's starting 

And on ev'ry side you'll see 
People merrily departing, 

Bound to sport upon the lea. 
What the lea may be we dare not 

Give away to any one. 
More than this to say we care not: 

*Tis the thing they'll sport upon. 



Lads and lasses, free from sadness, 

Will together dance and sing; 
Yes, with ditties full of gladness 

They will make the welkin ring. 
Of the welkin do not ask us 

If the meaning we'll expound, 
C'-uelly the same would task us, 

For to secrecy we're bound. 
84 



Mr. Strephon (sly persuader) 

Will with Phyllis press his suit, 
And perhaps he'll serenade her 

Very neatly on his lute. 
Of the lute to*get a notion 

The desire you may indulge, 
But we answer with emotion 

That we really can't divulge. 



Lemonade will flow profusely, 

And so dry will be a few 
That they'll liquor up quite loosely, 

As the dryads used to do. 
Maybe some one will be asking 

What's a dryad, anyhow? 
But our duty the unmasking 

Of this myst'ry won't allow. 

Yes, those picnics are delightful 

In a multitude of ways; 
Do away with feelings spiteful. 

And make happy halcyon days. 
As to halcyon— pray be lenient. 

Ask us not to make it clear, 
For we're making it convenient 

To wind ud the Ivric here. 
85 




AUTUMN. 

What ho, there, varlet! hither bring 

The quinine flask inviting, 
For in my bones I feel the sting 

Of blasts both cold and biting. 
Old Sol, you see, has slid away 

(He's somehow slipped his tether), 
And in his stead there's come to stay 

Bleak, damp, autumnal weather. 



My pills? Ah, yes, these are the stuff 

To knock out chills and fever. 
My doctor gives 'em many a puff, 

And Doc. is no deceiver. 
Here's the prescription, writ with skill 

(Ah, Doc, I am your debtor): 
"Two pillulae each hour until 

The patient's feeling better." 



My plasters? Yes, just stick them an 

My shoulders, sides and middle— 
They toast a fellow, every one, 

Like cakes upon the griddle. 
A royal thing a plaster is 

To aid the renovation 
Of one who has the rheumatiz 

And needs some lubrication. 



Hot water? Certainly, my lad. 

And put some mustard in it. 
The foot-bath treatment isn't bad, 

And wherefore not begin it? 
I'd rather be fried, steamed and boiled. 

Strewed, roasted, swathed and sweated, 
Greased, buttered, tarred and carbon-oiled, 

Than die ana be regretted. 



But stay— the punch? Oh, happy thought. 

Where is my friendly flagon? 
Don't tell me that one never ought 

To get a quiet jag on. 
Hot punch? What else in all this land 

Can beat it? Oh, my brothers. 
As long as we've this cure on hand, 

Away with all the others. 
87 




THE WAGNER ERA. 

Our town is progressing-, they tell us, 

In thoroughbred musical taste, 
And people are getting more zealous 

In studying harmonies chaste. 
Dutch street bands are wholly demolished, 

Cheap harpists have fled far away, 
And the hand-organ fiend is abolished, 

For culture is coming to stay. 



The minstrel show's left us forever 

('Tis utterly vulgar, you know). 
The ditties we used to think clever 

Are scouted as trashy and low. 
The melodies of the plantation, 

Which made quite a hit in their day, 
Now are said to involve degradation. 

For culture 1.3 coming to stay. 
8S 



No more do we hear "Suwanee River," 
And the "Sweet Bye and Bye" has gone 
hence; 

"Annie Laurie" makes classicists shiver- 
To sing it's a penal offense. 

"Home, Sweet Home," there's no use In 
performing ; 
The warbler thereof is a jay; 

He would simply set critics a-storming, 
For culture is coming to stay. 



If your end you would socially keep up, 

And move in an elegant sphere. 
Your heart must delightedly leap up 

When Wagner's productions you hear. 
"Goetterdaemmerung" must be your Bible, 

"Walkyrie" your passions must sway; 
Simple tunes are on music a libel, 

For culture is coming to stay. 



Comic opera always a scandal 

And curse to the world you must vote; 
Just tolerate Mozart and Handel 

And the little things Beethoven wrote. 
Bear in mind that a strict sense of duty 

Compels you contempt to display 
For J. L. Molloy and Pinsuti, 

Since culture is coming to stay. 



Now 'tis true that the goal is still distant, 

Some hanker for melody yet. 
But by patience and labor persistent. 

At length to a point we will get, 
Where in technique and art contrapuntal 

We'll all be professionals gay, ^ 
And the critics no more we'll disgruntle, 

For culture is coming to stay. 
89 




THE BOY GRADUATE. 

He mounts the stage. His brow is clear, 
He knows no qualm, no puny fear, 

No quiver of dismay. 
Noble and lofty is the state 
Of youthful Mr. Graduate 

Upon commencement day. 



Garjnents brand-new his form bedeck, 
A tow'ring- collar walls his neck, 

His cuffs are snowy white. 
Who, in such radiant togs as these. 
Could stoop to weak'ning at the knees, 

Beset with vulgar fright? 



Not he. The proud and happy .lad 
Expertly coached and nobly clad. 
Peels "to the manor born." 
Genius his soaring soul expands, 
And fame nearby awaiting stands- 
He views the mob with scorn. 

90 



What's this that he unfolds? Oh, ye 
It is, it is, a large MS., 

With burning thoughts inscribed. 
The people listen with intense 
Delight, till all his eloquence 

They've joyously imbibed. 



All nature's secrets he unlocks, 
The rules of science orthodox 

He handles like a sage. 
Problems that make our statesmen swear 
He settles with astuteness rare 

In this benighted age. 



Then, when the thunders of applause 
Have ceased, and he at length withdraws, 

'Mid torrents of bouquets, 
The glee club claims him, and he takes 
His turn at rippling trills and shakes 

In rattling college lays. 



Alas! that after college days. 

With light and life and hope ablaze. 

There comes a cold, cold deal; 
When heroes of the stage must try 
Their luck at hustling, or— oh, my!— 

Go join a "Commonweal." 
91 




THE GIRL GRADUATE. 

What form is this whose charms serene. 
With delicate and lustrous sheen, 

The stage illuminate? 
Is't Venus or Diana? Nay, 
'Tis one far lovelier than they— 

The sweet girl graduate. 



In robes of virgin white she stands, 
With jewels on her dainty hands, 

And flow'rets in her hair. 
Her glass has told her of her charms. 
And so she feels no strange alarms. 

Nor shirks the footlights' glare. 



A thousand dudes in yellow shoes. 
And neckties of hilarious hues, 

Look on with lovesick eyes. 
Their gaze she does not fear to meet, 
But just to bring them to her feet 

Her level b .-l : .- tries. 

99 



A hush upon the audience falls. 
Deep interest its soul enthralls. 

No covert sneer doth lurk 
When she unties a ribbon blue, 
And opens up to public view 

Her essay— peerless worki 



Now, now she lets the torrents loose 
Of learning" vast, and thoughts abstruse, 

Worthy of sages old. 
The field of rhetoric for flow'rs 
She ransacks. Wondrous are the pow'rs 

That here themselves unfold. 



Scarce have the plaudits died away, 
When lo! she seats herself to play 

Piano solos grand; 
Mozart, Tschaikowsky, Sydney Smith, 
She bangs and slams and rattles with 

A finely cultured hand. 



She closes. Flow'rs fall round her fast. 
How can she ever be outclassed? 

Folks ask with flushing cheek. 
Ask of young Counter Jumper who 
Gets twelve per month, his honest due; 

She'll marry him next week. 
03 




ODE TO AN UMBRELLA. 

Hail, old umbrella! Tempest-scarred 

And wobbly as thou art, 
One cannot help but view thee, pard, 

With kindliness of heart. 

Although thy ribs are out of gear, 

Although thy coat is torn, 
Por thee there is no covert sneer, 

No epithet of scorn. 

For, in thy old age, thou art proof 

Against the itching hands 
That somehow can ne'er hold aloof 

From one's umbrella-stands. 

In railway trains thou mayst be left. 
Untouched by those that loot. 

Thy owner cannot be bereft 
Of thee, old parachute. 

If thou wert made of silken stuff, 

With silver mountings gay. 
Thieves could not hurry fast enougla 

To carry thee away. 

04 



35ut, old "umbreli/' the duty's thine 

To hold thy place as yet, 
To travel with us when 'tis fine 

And vanish when 'tis wet. 

At home in leisure thou shalt lie, 

When rain begins to pour, 
But when there is a cloudless sky, 

Be always to the fore. 

Such is thy custom, aged gamp— 

With innocence demure, 
To hide thyself in weather damp, 

And hold a sinecure. 

But, bless thy ancient heart, why not 
Thus slumber on the shelf? 

If we were an "umbrell," that's, what 
We'd like to do ourself. 

95 




THE MANDOLIN CLUB. 

O list to the music that's borne on a 
breeze, 
(Tink-a-tink, tink-a-tunk, tink-a-tay) ; 
Like the ripple of wavelets- on sweet sum- 
mer seas 
(Tink-a-tonk, tink-a-tank, tink-a-too) ; 
No semblance of discord the harmony- 
warps, 
One would think 'twas the angels per- 
forming- on harps, 
But 'tis only a concert of mandolin sharps 
(Twink-a-twank, twink-a-twunk, twink- 
a-twee). 



Refrain. 

Then hearken with rapture beyond all 

compare. 
To the sweet twinkle-twankling that 

twunks through the air. 
Flee away from the brass band's delirious 
blare. 
And the orchestra's giddy hubbub. 
96 



Dull care to the winds will at once be 

consigned, 
And a solace for grief you'll immediately 

find, 
In the gentle and soft twinkle-twankle- 
some grind 
Of the twunklesome Mandolin club. 
(Twink-a-twoo.) 

Beethoven's sonatas they play like old 

vets 
And full justice they do to the "High 

School Cadets" 
(Tink-a-tonk, tink-a-tank, tink-a-too) ; 
The waltzes of Strauss and Waldteufel 

they play 
In a witchingly winsome and delicate 

way; 
Till you wish they'd keep at it all night 

and all day. 
(Twink-a-twank, twink-a-twunk, twink- 

a-twee). 

Ref.— Then hearken with rapture, etc. 

The "Dead March in Saul" they can ren- 
der with skill 
(Tink-a-tink, tink-a-tunk, tink-a-tay) ; 
And the strains of the "Yorke" they reel 
off with a will 
(Tink-a-tonk, tink-a-tank, tink-a-too) ; 
"McGinty," "Tannhauser," the songs of 

the war^ 
"Semiramide," "White Wings" and "Rory 

O'More," 
Are among the bright things in their vast 
repertoire. 
(Twink-a-twank, tw:nk-a-twunk, twink- 
a-twee). 

Ref.— Then hearken with rapture, etc. 

Pianos and organs must move to the rear 

(Tink-a-tink, tink-a-tunk, tink-a-tay) ; 
Their light is bedimmed while the mando- 
lin's here 
(Tink-a- ^nk, tink-a-tank, tink-a-too); 
Ine futur^ May Festival, all must agree, 
Will be shaped to conform to the people's 

decree. 
And a mandolin carnival surely 'twill be 
(Twink-a-twank, twink-a-twunk, twink 
a-twee). 

Ref.— Then hearken with rapture, e^to. 
07 




THE PUNSTER. 

There was a jolly Irish lad, 

Who hailed from down in Munster. 
He met with influences bad, 

And thus became a punster. 
Like poor Tom Hood, whene'er he spoke, 

Facetiously he would wink. 
And with some light and playful joke 

The populace he'd Hood-wink. 

The doingrs of the dentist's ax 

To him were ax-i-dental. 
The feeling toward a landlord's tax 

He looked on as pa(y)rental. 
The undertaker he'd remind 

That death would overtake him; 
The final sleep one's eyes might blind, 

And yet this man would "wake" him. 

Napoleon Bonaparte, he said, 

Was just a Water-loser; 
A .iimjam victim's bugaboos 

Just marked the bugaboozer. 
Ben Butler's eye, he said, was like 

A pistol, since he cocked it. 
Withv stones a babe he would not strike. 

Although he sometimes "rocked" it. 

08 



"Alas," he'd cry, "it makes me pail 

To think I'll kick the bucket"; 
And if a duck he saw for sale, 

He'd offer just a duc(k)at. 
Whene'er a painting made him weep, 

A hue-and-cry he'd call it. 
He'd curse baseball in tones so deep 

That the curse— well, he'd bass-bawl it. 

A schooner's mast he deemed all right, 

But the captain must be master. 
He never mustered courage quite 

To wear a mustard plaster. 
A comet left him comatose 

If e'er he dared to scan it; 
And the heavenly chart made him morose. 

Because he couldn't plan-it. 

To garden tools he'd cry "Yeo-hoe," 

An observation rakish; 
And when he'd read what wasn't so, 

He'd say, "Well, faix, it's fakish." 
"Men should not darkly frown," thought 
he, 

"No matter who their frows are; 
And he deemed it pantalunacy 

To call a pant a trouser. 

, At last the worst came to the worst. 

This youth so ready witted 
Acquired a fit of coughing first. 

His coffin then was fitted. 
The marble cutter asked in doubt: 

"For whom's this stone intended?" 
"Why, I'm the mon-u-ment," cried out 

The youth— then all was ended. 

90 




LA VIE PARISIENNE. 

I am a zhentelman Francais, 

In Paris bred and born. 
All foreign vays and mannaires I 

Regard viz hate and scorn. 
My brozzaire Frenchmen vill unite 

In von super-r-be Amen 
Ven I declare zat nozzing beats 

La vie Parisienne. 

In Paris every von puts on 

Ze clothes so fine— Ah, Dieu! 
Zose ozzaire nations nozzing know 

Of vot ze clothes can do. 
Who spiks of taste in ozzaire lands? 

Pardieu! zat' s— what you call?— 
Oh, yes— cold cheek— for, as to taste, 

Dear Paris has eet all. 



Ve Frenchmen are ze poets true; 

In fancy ve excel; 
Ve love ze paints, ze bric-a-brac, 

Ze flowers so sveet to smell. 
Ve love ze women and ze vine, 

Ze music and ze dance- 
One cannot tell what living meann 

Unless he's lived in France. 
100 



Ve are ze cooks par excellence, 

Our deeshes— sacre bleu! 
It takes a zhenius heaven-born 

To make a French menu. 
2e epicure whose palate's cloyed 

In climates far away, 
Need only come to Paris and 

He'll eat ze livelong day. 

Ve have ze only journalists, 

Ze only Zola books, 
Ze greatest can-can dancers and 
Ze lightest-fingered crooks. 
Ve are "sans peur et sans reproche," 

All knights like Bayard still; 
But, entre nous, vene'er ve fight 

Ve do not fight to kill. 

Vy did I come tO' Ameriquei 

If France I love so dear? 
Ah, zat's ze puzzling question, yet 

Ze answer's very clear. 
You zee, I am of noble blood 

And honorable life. 
But, mille tonnerres!— I'm poor as Job; 

I vant a Yankee vife. 

Ze lady must have lots of cash, 

Zat's all vot I exact 
And she can have my title ven 

She does ze nuptial act. 
Zen back to France I'll take her, and 

I'll hasten once again 
To laveesh all my vealth upon 

La vie Pari?i^nrip. 

lOl 




AT HOMESTEAD. 



Golden months ago in a mill beside a 

stream 
An artisan was laboring" with happiness 

supreme ; 
The tariff hovered over him like guardian 

angels' wings, 
But now another chap is there, and this is 

what he sings: 



Refrain. 



Do not forget me, do not forget me. 
Sometimes think of me still. 

I'm from another state. 

And I don't "amalgamate"; 
I'm the non-union man in the mill. 
Do not forget me, do not forget me, 

I'|n the non-union man. 

The man in the mill. 
102 



Where are now the wages that were paid 

long-, long ago? 
Have they followed the example of last 

winter's ice and snow? 
The scale is topsy-turvy; labor's out upon 

a foul. 
And it's hard upoii. the nerves to hear that 

sentimental howl: 

Ref.— Do not iorget me, etc. 



What's wrong with Brother Pinkerton? 

Why does he weep and wail? 
What cares that man of Winchesters 

about the labor scale? 
Alas! his memory is keen— he does not 

like to hear 
The echo of those words that break upon 

his list'ning ear: 

Ref.— Do not forget me, etc. 



O fate, what is thy program now? Is it 
thy sovereign will 

To make the hapless artisan pay all that 
Little Bill; 

Or is the Tide to take a turn and ter- 
minate the reign 

Of the gentleman who warbles the monot- 
onous ref ram: 

Ref.— Do not forget me, etc. 



Cheer up, O ye who mourn the loss of 

jobs with heai^y pay, 
The silver lining of the cloud will yet 

come forth to stay; 
And the mill beside the streamlet will with 

gladsome voices ring 
When no one has occasion any more the 

strain to sing: 

Ref.— Do not forget me, etc. 
103 




BRIGGS AT Alt HE BAR. 



He did it, yes, he did it, 

And guilty he's been found. 
No longer from the pulpit 

Deep dogmas he'll expound. 
The deed that Briggs committed 

Is mystic, veiled and grim. 
But anyhow he did it, 

And that's the end of him. 



Briggs was a great professor. 

Theology he taught: 
But all his skill and learning 

Have come at last to naught. 
He cared not for his prestige. 

But through some idle whim. 
He went— ha,ha!~and did It, 

And that's the end of him. 

104 



Men fell upon his bosom 

And begged him to retract. 
Fair women thronged about him 

And did the tearful act. 
His brethren rallied round him. 

And plead his cause with vim. 
But still, you see, he did it, 

And that's the end of him. 



Accomplices he had not; 

He sought not sordid pelf. 
But went ahead free gratis 

To criminate himself. 
Then stood before his judges, 

Long-visaged chaps and prim. 
They settled that he did it, 

And that's the end of him. 



If Briggs had only chosen 

To take another path; 
If in the ways of darkness 

He had not cut a swath. 
He'd still be great and honored 

And in the best of trim; 
But then, you know, he did it, 

And that's the end of him. 



What did he do? Confound it. 

How can a layman tell? 
'Twas something very horrid, 

Without a parallel. 
The church's cup of sorrow 

Is filled up to the brim, 
Because he went and did it, 

And ._:..t's : ^ ^iid of him. 
105 




OUIDA. 

When you are in a lovesick mood 

And thrill with fiery passion; 
When agonies themselves obtrude 

Because you've got a mash on. 
Then is the time, when at the feet 

Of Love your spirit grovels, 
To turn on lots of extra heat 

By reading Ouida's novels. 

The plot— she only has the one- 
Is simple but enticing; 

Nine parts there are of naughty fun 
To one of legal splicing. 

Sobs, oaths, blood, tears, Italian pray'rs 
And classical quotations 

Make up the giddy wheat and tares 
Of Ouida's lucubrations. 

Her hero is an English lord^ 

A haughty young Apollo; 
Who only has to say the word 

And all the world must follow. 
He versifies and plays and sings, 

Talks all the tongues of Babel, 
Yet calls his talents silly things- 

Thi^ chap in Ouida's fable. 
106 



In strength he is a Hereules 

And carries all before him; 
In battle bullets on the breeze 

Go whistling-, harmless, o'er him. 
He rows, he boxes, drinks old wine 

Along with friends from college, 
Yet thinks it tiresome to combine 

All kinds of human knowledge. 

Away in foreign lands he meets 

A maiden fair but lowly; 
Of purest love he tastes the sweets 

And swears devotion holy. 
But marriage as a gen'ral thing 

His Highness isn't much on 
And so, he claims; a wedding ring 

Would "bust" his old escutcheon. 

At this the maiden takes a fit 

So much the freeze-out grieves her; 
The Duke don't like her plaints a bit; 

He packs his grip and leaves her. ^ 
Then, then, for sixteen thousand miles 

Or more the maiden rambles; 
While he enjoys rich ladies' smiles 

Drinks deep and even gambles. 

At last she runs him down and though 

He sees her not— poor girlie, 
In secret gazes on her beau. 

And sheds some tear-drops pearly. 
Then with an agonizing sigh 

And feeble limbs that quiver, 
She ruins all her clothing dry 

By taking to the river. 

The Duke, when he finds out her fate, 

Says something wise in Latin, 
And straightway weds some female great 

Attired in silk and satin. 
Here having made us taste the cup 

Of love's most bitter rumpus, 
Miss Ouida winds her novel up 

And leaves us quite non cor^pos. 
107 




THE CHRYSANTHEMUM. 



The flow'rs of summertime are dead, 
Killed by the frost and in their stead 

In gallant state has come, 
Prepared to have his royal fling, 
The many-hued autumnal king, 

Yclept Chrysanthemum. 



What cares he for the bitter blast 
And skies with darkness overcast? 

No tender chap is he; 
But grows and thrives with careless grace. 
His blossoms opening up apace, 

A charming sight to see. 



No niggard thought his soul can sway; 
He blooms and blooms and blooms away. 

Loading his branches down 
With gems "of purest ray serene," 
Fit to display their brilliant sheen 

In any mon.-r-irs crown. 
108 



Anon he Hashes up to view 
Great blooms of golden-yellow hue 

Delightful to the eye; 
Anon his fancy takes a flight 
In masterstrokes of dazzling- white 

That rivalry defy. 



Here red and yellow he combines. 
And there in Tyrlan purple shines, 

Both suit him to a dot; 
To dissipate at times he seeks. 
And perpetrates wine-colored, freaks, 

Yet call him not a sot. 



Nay, for despite his football head 
And dudish bang, he's gently bred. 

His ancestry's lum-tum: 
He dates back to the days when man 
i^lrst set his foot in old Japan, 

This proud, chrysanthemum. 



Unto Jack Frost we humbly pray 
For grace. Deal gently with him, J., 

This floral monarch spare; 
Nor bear him malice just because 
He sports that pettiest of Haws— 

A Rugby head of hair. 
109 




DANCING IN THE BARN. 

O, 'twas down at the Bakerstown picnic, 
Where the lads and lasses met to 
dance and sing, 
Horns a-blowing, 
Feet a-g-oing-, 
And a-dancing of the Highland fling. 
(Ta-ra-rum.) 
Young David, a pulpiteer prospective, 
For theology not caring then a darn. 
Took to skipping, 
Lightly tripping 
And dancing in the barn. 

REFRAIN : 



As he moved so gracefully (tra la-la-la~la; 

tra la-la-la-la;) 
He forgot his theology (tra la-la; tra la- 
la; tra la-la; ta-ra-rum.) 
An4 they swung their partners all to- 
gether. 
'Twas David's opportunity to "larn," 
Nought regretting, 
Pirouetting 
And dancing in the barn. 

no 



When the presbytery met to deal with 
David, 
The clerics nearly fainted with dismay. 
"How imprudent 
In a student 
Thus to act" was all they had to say. 
(Ta-ra-rum.) 
Then David, like Washington, admitted 
His fault. Quoth he, "I cannot tell a 
yarn. 
Down the middle 
To the fiddle 
I went dancing in the barn." 

Ref. :— As he moved, etc. 

Then the ministers they all wept to- 
gether, 
A-thinking of the days when they were 
young. 
And with Mary 
Or with Sairy 
An active pair of heels had slung. 
(Ta-ra-rum.) 
So they said to him: "David, you're for- 
given," 
But we deem it right young clergymen 
to warn. 
That we'll frown on 
And sit down on 
Wicked dancing in the barn. 

Ref. :— As he moved, etc. 
Ill 




OUR JUGGERNAUT. 



With many a bump and jar, 

With many a bang- and whack, 
A lumbering-, hulking traction car 

Thundered along- the track; 
To the helpless passer-by 

A terrible fate it brought, 
And still it roared in a voice four-ply 

The song of the Jugg-ernaut. 



"Scrunch, scrunch, scrunch," 
How easy 'tis to kill! 
'Scrunch, scrunch, scrunch," 
How easy graves to fill! 
And it's clear the track or die. 

That's the lesson distinctly taught, 
As the ogre roars in a voice four-ply 
The song- of the Juggernaut. 
112 



The small boy at his play 

With marbles, top or kite, 
Must never attempt to cross the way 

With traction cars in sight. 
If ever he breaks the rule, 

In a death-trap he'll be caught, 
While the monster shouts, like a hideous 
g-houl, 

The song- of the Juggernaut. 



"Grind, grind, grind," 

'Tis only a helpless child, 
"Grind, grind, grind," 

Though mothers with grief are wild. 
What's the odds if some are slain? 

Who cares if ruin is wrought? 
While the monster howls in a harrowing 
strain 

The song of the Juggernaut. 



There's law to say him nay, 

There's law to bid him halt, 
But he takes the law in his own sweet 
way, 

With a liberal grain of salt. 
For he's backed by wealth and pow'r. 

And in vain is justice sought, 
When the monster screams in accents 
sour 

The song of the Juggernaut. 



"Crush, crush, crush," 

With never a thought humane, 
"Crush, crush, crush," 

Is there any one dares complain? 
"Hands off!" the magnates cry, 

"The privilege we have bought 
Of bellowing forth in a voice four-ply 

The song of the Juggernaut." 
113 




MOTHER'S MUSTARD PLASTERS. 

Tell us not of patent remedies to cure a 
heavy cold, 
They are mock'ries and delusions every 
one. 
Dr. Quack may swear his pectoral is worth 
its weight in gold, 
And his liniment the finest 'neath the 
sun. 
Dr. Do-'em-Up may brag about the syrup 
he compounds, 
While his neighbor lauds the oleo of St. 
Jake; 
But there's none of 'em can drive 
away the halo that surrounds 
The mustard plasters mother used to 
, make. 

Chorus. 



Who could help but to regret her? 
Who could venture to forget her? 
She did honor to her sex and no mistake. 
There is joy our souls in linking 
To the olden times when thinking 
Of the mustard plasters mother used to 
make. 

114 



When an infant in the winter time went 
riding- on a sled, 
And baptized itself completely in the 
snow— 
If they brought it home non compos, did 
dear mother lose her head 
And employ a dozen medicos?— Oh, na. 
She would simply slap a mustard-pie upon 
the victim's chest. 
Steaming hot, and soon the cold would 
have to break— 
Oh, 'twould take a salamander to endure 
beneath his vest 
The mustard plasters mother used to 
make. 

Cho.— Who could help but to regret her? 
etc. 

When the dreary thawing weather laid the 
old man on his back. 
With the rheumatiz, pneumonia and ca.- 
tarrh. 
The old lady used devotedly to keep him. 
on the track 
Toward recovery— she was his guiding 
star. 
Doctors never were admitted, for 'twas 
certain, if they wertc, 
That there soon would be a corpselet and 
a wake. 
And in consequence the patient felt it 
proper to prefer 
The mustard plasters mother used to 
make. 

Cho.— Who could help but to regret her? 
etc. 

Ev'ry ailment fell before * em; they were 
always apropos. 
Cancer, measles, typhus, smallpox— 
what you will- 
Had to knuckle to those plasters in the 
days of long ago— 
There's no doubt of it but what they 
filled the bill. 
Not such namby-pamby make-believes as 
those we have to-day, 
But the sort of thing to make a fellow 
quake, 
Were those big volcanic flapjacks, which 
would burn and burn away— 
The mustard plasters mother used to 
make. 

Cho.— Who could help but to regret her? 
etc. 

115 



Ah, what boot9 it to be weeping- o'er those 
landmarks of the past! 
Times have changed and ancient customs 
are forgot; 
And 'tis not the proper thing to ask for 
plasters that'll plast, 
Such affairs are classed as antiquated 
rot. 
Still the mem'ry lingers with us and is 
cherished all the time — 
'Tis a heritage too precious to forsake — 
Of those triumphs of the healing art, com- 
bustively sublime, 
The mustard plasters mother used to 
make. 

Cho.— Who could help but to regret her? 
etc. 

116 



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